Execution Dock

“I in't afraid,” he said at length. “Leastways not enough ter stop me.”

Monk halted and Scuff halted half a step later.

“I don't doubt your courage,” Monk said clearly, meeting Scuffs eyes. “In fact, if you had a trifle less you might be safer.”

“Yer want me ter be scaredy-cat?” Scuff asked incredulously.

Monk made a quick decision. “If it will keep you out of the hands of men like Phillips, yes I do.”

Scuff stood still on the spot, the stubbor

Monk was furious with himself for having put them both into such a position. Now he was caught between denying the fact that he cared about the boy, which would be a wounding lie whose damage he might never undo, or admitting that his decision was based on emotion rather than reason. Or the alternative, perhaps crueler still, was to suggest that he really did think Scuff was no use. That one he could not even consider.

He started to walk again.

“I think you're a lot of use,” he said quietly, falling back a bit to keep step with the boy, rather than letting him skip to keep up. “For knowledge and brains, not for fighting, and this could become very unpleasant. If I have to get out very quickly, I don't want to have to stop to make sure you are all right. Have you ever heard the expression, ‘hostage to fortune’?”

“No, I in't,” Scuff said dubiously, but there was a spark of hope in his eyes.

“It means caring enough about something that you can't afford to lose it, so people can make you do what they want,” Monk explained. “Because you think it's worth a lot, or it's bad that it should be destroyed,” he added, in case Scuff should be embarrassed.

Scuff turned the idea over in his mind, examining it. “Oh,” he said at last. “So you wouldn't want Phillips ter drown me, take a fr'instance, or cut me throat, like? So you might leave ‘im alone. But if it don't bother yer, yer'd tell ‘im ter get on with it, an’ yer'd nab ‘im?”

“Something like that,” Monk agreed, thinking that he had made his point rather well.

“I see.” Scuff nodded very slightly. “Well, if we get someone as is daft enough ter get caught, we'll ‘ave ter make sure it's someone we don't care about… not too much. I s'pose Mrs. Monk is one o’ them ‘ostages, in't she? Yer'd let pretty well the devil ‘isself go ter save ‘er, wouldn't yer?”

There was no way out of the conclusion. “Yes,” he admitted. “That's why she's staying away from Phillips, and the bad places on the river. I'm going there, and-before you argue anymore-you aren't.”

“Yer can mebbe tell ‘er wot ter do, ‘cause she's a woman,” Scuff observed, stopping, and standing very stiffly, feet slightly apart. “I in't.” He took a deep breath. “An’ you in't me pa. But I'll look after yer, anyway. Where are yer go

Monk was irritated at being outmaneuvered, and yet underneath the surface, aware that Scuff was also trying to stay with him, without sacrificing his own dignity. He wanted desperately to belong, and he thought his only way was to be of use. What was the risk, really, compared with those he ran every day living on the river edge, cadging his food and shelter by picking up bits of coal or dropped brass screws from the mud when the tide went down?

He caught up with Scuff. “All right,” he said, mock grudgingly. “You might help me find the lighterman. You're right; that's where I was going to start.”

“‘Course,” Scuff said casually, as if he did not really care, but he shrugged his shoulders and then walked a little taller, avoiding Monk's eyes. He did not wish to be read, at this particular moment; he was too vulnerable. “We can get a ferry down a bit,” he added. “Find the lightermen ‘avin’ a cup o’ tea, like as not, at this hour.”

Monk was uncertain whether to thank him. He decided against it; it might sound a little patronizing. “Hope so,” he said instead. “I could do with one too.”

Scuff grimaced. Monk knew he had great hopes of being given one himself, if he were lucky; possibly even a sandwich. It was unlikely that he had eaten today.

They took the ferry downstream, as suggested, and asked specifically after the lighterman they wanted. It took them more than an hour to find him, because he was already at work, first loading and then getting his lighter out into the traffic. They made some of their inquiries of a group of men standing around a brazier with boiling water, and Monk purchased a mug of tea and a thick slice of bread. He offered the same to Scuff, who thought about it as long as he dared, then said with practiced indifference that he didn't mind if he did. All the while he watched Monk out of the corner of his eye to make sure he did not miss his chance.

Monk affected not to notice.

“I already told yer,” the lighterman said wearily. “Yer let the bastard orff! There in't no more I can say!”

They were sitting on the canvas bales as the flat-bottomed craft made its slow, heavy way downstream towards Greenwich.

“I know what you said,” Monk assured him. “And all the evidence bears it out. But we didn't ask you what Mr. Durban said, or if he asked you anything that you didn't mention before.”

The lighterman screwed up his face in thought, moving his eyes as if looking at the hard, glittering reflections off the water. “‘E were upset,” he replied slowly. “All bent over ‘isself like someone'd ‘it ‘im in the belly. Tell yer the truth, I liked ‘im better fer it.”

So did Monk, but it was not the answer he needed. He had already asked Orme these questions, but Orme was so defensive of Durban that his answers were no longer useful; they had become simply a repetition that Durban had done the right thing. Monk was hoping the lighterman would remember some other information that Durban had let slip, some word, or even omission, that might lead in a new direction. He was fumbling, and he knew it. The lighterman's face showed his disappointment. He had expected more, and he had not received it. He had endangered himself to testify, and Monk had let him down.

“Are you afraid of Phillips?” Monk asked suddenly.

The lighterman was caught off guard. “No!” he said indignantly. “Why should I be? I never said he done nothin’. In't got no cause ter come after me.”

“And if he had cause, would he?” Monk asked, trying to keep all expression out of his voice.

The lighterman stared at him. “Wot's the matter with yer? Yer simple, or summink? ‘E'd bloody carve out me guts an’ ‘ang ‘ em on Execution Dock ter dry in the wind!”

Monk continued to look skeptical.

Scuff looked from Monk to the lighterman and back again, waiting, his eyes wide.

“An’ yer won't catch ‘im fer it neither,” the lighterman added. “Not that you bleedin’ lot could catch a cold soppin’ wet in winter. Mr. Durban knew wot ‘e were about. Reckon if ‘e'd ‘a lived, ‘e'd a swung the bastard by ‘is neck, all right.”

Monk felt the words land like a blow, the harder because it was the one case Durban had not solved, and he did not want to admit it. But there was a thread in what the lighterman had said that was worth following. “So he was still working on it?” he asked.

The lighterman looked at him witheringly.

“‘Course ‘e were. I reckon ‘e'd never ‘ave given up.” He squinted a little in the hard light, and leaned very slightly on his long oar to steer a few degrees to port.

“What is there to follow?” Monk found the words hard to say, placing himself so vulnerably, as if he were asking a bargee how to do his own job.